I'm Not Letting You Leave Me
by Letters to Ghosts
Summary: Set during Deacon's cancer, Rayna's POV, AU(-ish).


**1.**

I knew I would find him there.

 _He_ knew I would find him there.

I accused him of disappearing but it was a ludicrous claim, really. He knows the cabin is the first place I would go looking for him. Back in the day, in his darkest phases, he would be gone for days, for weeks sometimes, and he would make sure I could not find him. When he wants to, he knows how to disappear. This time, his retreat was more of a last-ditch attempt to delay the inevitable: telling me.

I get that, to him, it feels like a cruel joke of fate. It's easy to understand why someone with as much bad luck as Deacon would start to wonder. Why? Why _now_? But I won't let him convince himself it's some sort of cosmic punishment. It's absurd.

This is not how the song is going to end for him. He's not alone in this anymore. From here on out, this is _us_ fighting this fight.

* * *

 **2.**

It happens so easily, it's almost scary. We don't need some transition phase, some time to get reacquainted with each other. Being together is our natural state, it's any configuration where we're not that we have to work on.

It's only been two weeks since the cabin, since we sat together on my living room's couch and I hold the girls while Deacon told them there might be a possibilty his time on this earth will come to a more abrupt end than previously expected. It's only been two weeks but he's been spending all of his nights and most of his days here and I wonder why he still bothers to drive back and forth to his own house. I wonder why we are wasting any more time.

It's Maddie's voice which pulls me out of my reverie. "A penny for your thoughts."

"I don't sell those for less than a dollar."

She smiles as she takes a seat at the kitchen island. "I understand now how we can afford to live in this house."

I'm relieved she and Deacon managed to patch things up last night before he drove her to the concert. He needs us these days, all of us.

"Deacon's not here?" she asks.

"Upstairs, he'll be down in a minute."

"He's here all the time, why doesn't he just move in?"

I smile. "You should ask him that."

* * *

 **3.**

I'm sitting on the edge of the pool, my bare legs in the water and a laptop precariously balanced on my thighs when I hear him approach.

"Hey."

I get the broadest of smiles in return. He removes his boots and socks, rolls his jeans up before he sits next to me. He takes a peek at the screen in front of me and I don't have to look at him to know he's annoyed.

"Baby..." he sighs.

These last weeks, I've been documenting myself on his illness, looking for alternative treatments. He's convinced it's a waste of time.

"I'm not good at _waiting_ , Deacon."

I've never been. I need to _do_ , I need to at least _try_ , he knows that. I tip my face up to the sun and close my eyes. We're silent for a good minute until I feel his foot brush against mine underwater and his lips graze my shoulder. I turn to him, blinking as I open my eyes again.

"Do you want me to stop looking?" I genuinely ask.

"Of course not."

* * *

 **4.**

We take too many walks on our bridge. We spend too much time at the Bluebird Cafe. He insists on going to all those places which hold a special meaning to us and it's starting to worry me.

We talk too much about the past and not enough about the future.

I confronted him about it and he assured me he isn't giving up the fight, he's resolute on beating this thing but his actions don't match his words. He's acting like a man resigned to his fate.

* * *

 **5.**

I find them everywhere, post-its with lines of lyrics and all kinds of songs ideas for the album he wants us to write. There was one on the bathroom mirror yesterday, a few on my coffee mug, a good dozen in my purse. He says he's on a creative binge and doesn't want it to stop. I drew the line at the one I found stuck to my forehead when I woke up this morning.

He wants us to hurry to finish the writing and start recording as soon as we can but I want us to wait for him to get better. We fought about it and even though he wouldn't say it aloud, we both know what the real issue is here: he believes we don't have the luxury of time anymore.

* * *

 **6.**

He's halfway through his fourth song when it happens.

He looks at me and I see that unmistakable shift in his expression as he sings the verse's last line. A realization. He misses his cue for the chorus then but the band covers up for him and he quickly snaps out of it and jumps back into the song. I'm sure it went unnoticed to everyone in the bar but me.

He has barely time to finish his encore before a spontaneous line of people starts to form in front of the stage. I watch him chat with every one of them and sign all kinds of items from coasters to vinyls. While he never loses his apparent smile, I know he's struggling inside. As soon as he's done, I see him disappear in the back and I excuse myself from my conversation with Watty to follow him.

I find him in the dim-lit, deserted alley behind the bar. He's got his back to me, his hands in his pockets. He doesn't turn around before he speaks.

"I don't want to die."

I smile because I've been waiting for this to happen. I've been _praying_ for this to happen. I walk around to stand in front of him, grab his shirt and drag him to me, our foreheads ending up pressed together.

"You _won't_."

* * *

 **7.**

I hate to lie to him. I've spent 13 years doing so, for what I had convinced myself was the best of reasons but it doesn't mean it was less agonizing.

I hate to lie to him but I have to do this. I know it's a stupid idea, I know the best I can probably hope for is that Bev turns me down and the worst is that she reports me for trying to illegally buy an organ from her. I wouldn't put it past her.

I also know that, if the roles were reversed, Deacon would not hesitate one second to do whatever it takes to save his sister. This is who he is. I can only hope that a little bit of that DNA they share will ultimately push her to make the right choice.

* * *

 **8.**

"Deacon?"

He's asleep on the music room's couch when I get home and I feel bad for waking him up. He's more tired lately, I too often catch him having trouble breathing or feeling dizzy, even though he tries to hide it from me.

I kneel down next to the couch, run a hand through his hair as he opens his eyes.

"Ray?"

I would have thought to be cried out by now, I spent most of the flight back trying to hide the sobs and reassure the worried attendant I was alright. But as soon as my name leaves his lips, I can't help the tears.

"Baby? What's going on?"

"Nothing, I'm just... It's been a long day."

Before he can speak again, I remove my boots and slide next to him. He wraps his arm around me. We lie there for a while until something catches my attention. It's laying on a rug in a corner with a comprehensive assortment of tools spread around it.

"Is this the guitar that I—"

"Yes."

I turn around to face him and he props himself up on one arm. We can't help but crack up laughing at the same time.

"You're seriously trying to _fix_ it?"

"Not only am I _trying_ but I _will_ fix it." His expression turns solemn again and he leans down to kiss my forehead in the most unhurried way. "It'll live, Ray."

* * *

 **9.**

I know they all mean well but they need to stop. Tandy, Bucky, Watty. They keep telling me to prepare, to brace for the worst. They're one step away from buying me books about dealing with grief while Deacon is still very alive, thank you.

I can't, anyway. I can't start to imagine a world without Deacon. I don't want to live in a world without Deacon. Whether we were together or not, he's always been _there_. He's been in my life since I was 16, he's my best friend, my one true love. Our lives are inextricably connected.

I'm the one who left a post-it on our bathroom mirror this morning.

 _Here I am  
I lost you once  
I won't lose you again_

* * *

 **10.**

Crushed hope came in the mail today. Little pieces of what used to be a million dollars check are scattered all over my desk and it's now clear that no amount of money will fix whatever grudge Bev holds against her brother.

I feel the urgent need to get out of here.

I grab my phone and purse and manage to avoid talking to anyone as I hurry outside Highway 65. I try to call Deacon from the car but it goes straight to voicemail. He must have turned his phone off and I should probably do the same with mine, it hasn't stop ringing since the news about his cancer broke. I'm not sure how this morning could get any worse.

I'm trying to stay positive.

I'm _really_ trying.

And I'm failing.

* * *

 **11.**

"Baby?"

"Mmm?" I'm holding his hand so tight, I swear his fingers might soon start to turn blue. "Oh, sorry."

I vaguely remember him saying a few seconds ago that he would go get all of us drinks but it appears my mind didn't register it meant I had to let go of his hand.

Beverly is sitting on the opposite side of the table, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. She's avoiding my gaze but I, can't seem to stop staring. I'm afraid if I blink, she'll disappear. It's been disappointment after disappointment lately. She, walking through that door and saying she would do it, gave us the first tangible sense of hope we've had in weeks.

* * *

 **12.**

He's been having those for a few days now, nightmares where he sees himself lying in a grave and there's nothing he can do as he's being buried alive. He wakes up with a jolt each time and there's nothing _I_ can do to alleviate the lingering terror.

In less than eight hours, we'll have to leave for the hospital. As we get ready for bed tonight, we both lie when we tell each other we're okay.

But we will.

I refuse to contemplate any other outcome.

He's having nightmares but I'm having dreams. About us raising our girls up. About him and me getting old together. About the life we were always supposed to have and that we finally have a shot at.

So, no. I don't contemplate any other outcome.


End file.
